


The End is the Beginning

by shadowolfhunter



Category: Justified
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-16 13:11:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2270976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowolfhunter/pseuds/shadowolfhunter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim looks after Raylan, now all Raylan needs to do is wake up. Before it's too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“They’re turning the machines off tomorrow.” There is absolutely no warmth in Gutterson’s tone, “just thought you might like to say goodbye.”

It’s not even a question, just an off hand statement that says so much and so little.

Art flinches.

Gutterson turns to leave, and Art just has to reach out to him. “Tim…” Tim pauses and turns, and Art watches rage, pain, and grief chase each other across his former deputy’s face. The younger man says nothing, just looks up at Art with a blank look, not even expectation.

Art feels a tinge of anger, Raylan Fucking Givens… Even now, Art cannot but feel justified. This was Raylan’s mess. The whole Boyd Crowder issue just became worse the moment Raylan stepped into it. Art conveniently brushes over his complicity in this disaster.

Conveniently forgets his last words to Raylan.

Perhaps not so conveniently, as he stares into Tim’s ice-blue eyes. There’s a look he’s never seen before on the young sniper’s face. Something old, and hard, and unflinching, and Art realises now he never really knew Gutterson at all. There is a core of pure steel in Gutterson, one that trumps the PTSD, and the alcohol and Gutterson’s many other issues. One that makes him a stone-cold killer, but one with self-control. Art never believed he would fear what Gutterson was capable of, but he’s revising his estimate.

“What about you, Tim?” Art finds his voice.

Tim stares hard, then turns his head away. “Me? I’m done. I’ve fought too long.” There’s a hollowness to his words that jabs at Art again. Tim probably means Raylan, but just maybe he means his own life. Rachel has said that Tim questions why he’s doing the job.

The silence stretches out, and Art tries to find the words to say. Gutterson’s expression never changes, he shakes his head and turns to go.

“Wait…” Art isn’t certain what he wants but he is certain that he doesn’t want Tim to go. Not like this.

“Wait for what?” Tim keeps on walking.

“I’m sorry.” Art finds himself apologising, no idea what for.

Tim turns “a day late and a dollar short…” He keeps moving away. “Can’t wait because we’re out of time.”

Art watches him walk away because he has nothing left to say. No way to reach the sniper, because every word is true and Art can’t find it in his heart to justify what happened.

***justified***

Tim returns to his truck, he isn’t even sure why he went to Art. Not that it matters, tomorrow they will turn the machines off and Raylan will die, and they will all get everything they want. Vasquez will get to prosecute Ava for murder, Rachel will get to keep being Chief without the inconvenience of Raylan Givens’ spectre hanging over her, Art will swan off into retirement without a care in the world, Winona will get Raylan’s death benefits and she will live comfortably with Willa. The insurance company will get to make one big payout and they won’t need to cover Raylan’s ongoing medical expenses any more.

And Raylan will be dead.

Boyd’s bullet into his shoulder was painful but not fatal, it was the two in his back from Ava’s gun that put him in the hospital, into a coma, his condition described as critical.

At first Tim kept away, it wasn’t his place, Raylan had Winona, and surely Art would visit, but Raylan had been a friend, and Tim needed to see him. So he’d visited. It was then that he found out that Raylan had no one. Winona had come once, for about twenty minutes, then left and never returned. No Art, no one from the Marshals’ office, Raylan was truly alone. A state that Tim now suspected he had always believed himself to be.

The idea revolted Tim. So he went back. Every night, spending hours talking to Raylan, anything to try and wake him.

He never meant to become so involved. At first he would just try talking to Raylan, he brought his books and read to Raylan, but then the nurse would come by and move Raylan so that he wasn’t just lying on his back all the time, so Tim found himself helping with that. Then there was the physio, keeping Raylan’s muscles moving. Perhaps it wasn’t his place, but Tim helped with that too. Through touch alone, Tim Gutterson came to know and maybe understand Raylan Givens, and that knowing went deep.

Tim had decided already that he was going to stay with Raylan to the bitter end, knowing he would measure in darkness afterwards however long it took the cowboy to die. Tim would hold his hand, if he could feel the touch of a friendly hand perhaps he would be at peace. It would likely shred what was left of Tim’s soul to say goodbye to Raylan, but it wasn’t as though there was much of that left.

It hurt like hell, but it wasn’t about him, it was about giving someone he cared about some peace. Tim could do that.

He turns the key, his truck rumbles into life, Tim listens for a moment, the constant note of the engine oddly soothing. Time is slipping by, so he puts his car into drive and heads to the hospital.

***justified***

“Y’hair’s getting long now.” Tim smooths some of the errant locks back from Raylan’s forehead. Looks down at his friend, “I went to see Art, y’know, figured I might get him to listen, figured that you deserved more of a goodbye.” His throat’s so tight he can barely get the words out but he pushes himself. This isn’t about him. “Gotta say, don’t think he’s coming.”

He sits in the chair and holds Raylan’s hand, it’s a routine now, hold his hand, talk to him, every six hours or so, manipulate his limbs, turn him to prevent bed sores. It’s not lost on Tim that he’s gotten good at this thing. Sometimes he sleeps there, next to Raylan, holding his hand and hoping like hell that somehow Raylan wakes up.

Raylan’s the master of brinksmanship, so just maybe, when they switch off all his machines, then he’ll just re-boot, like a computer. Tim wants that so badly he can almost taste it. But hope won’t make it so.

He strokes his thumb over Raylan’s knuckles, strong hands, they’ve had to do so much to protect their owner. Sensitive hands, fingers long and almost delicate, Tim cradles Raylan’s hand between both his own, wondering what those hands would have done if Raylan hadn’t gone into the Marshals. Raylan’s hand is bare, and Tim’s got something to do about that.

He doesn’t give a shit about evidence, so he reaches into his pocket and pulls it out, slips the horseshoe ring back onto Raylan’s finger.

It’s Raylan’s ring, everybody knows it’s Raylan’s ring, it’s barely evidence but they took it anyway and Tim can’t bear that. It looks right there, on Raylan’s right hand ring finger, the surprisingly flashy ring that was as much a part of Raylan as his Stetson and cowboy boots.

They’re both in evidence bags too, but Tim’s kinda hoping that no one misses the ring, all three things are part of Raylan, and Tim just wants to give something back. God knows they’re going to be taking so much from him.

***justified***

Maggie Toms peers through the window at them. It brings a big lump to her throat, they’re going to turn Raylan’s machines off tomorrow, it’s sink or swim, though everyone seems to expect Raylan to just die without the support. Well Maggie’s been a nurse a long time and she’s seen miracles before.

They deserve the miracle. Tim’s stubborn devotion to his friend, she watches through the little round window in the door, she has to go in soon, but somehow she needs this, Raylan Givens and his devoted watchdog, Tim Gutterson, have become the highlight of her round. She watches as Tim takes something small from his pocket, and then he’s sliding it onto Raylan’s ring finger and she realises it’s a ring, bright and shiny. It looks right there. At home on Raylan’s hand, it’s Raylan’s ring, she’s seen the tan lines.

She tears up. She’s been a nurse for over twenty years, and this love Tim shows his friend just breaks her down now. By the time they reach this stage, most people have found excuses not to come. Or come a few times a week, dwindling support, until they show up for the final time.

Tim’s been there every night. Sometimes he sleeps there, for the last two weeks he’s been virtually living in Raylan’s room. When she asks about it, casual conversation as they work to move Raylan onto his side, Tim shrugs. She has had the feeling in the last couple of weeks that the younger man has reached a momentous decision. That seems confirmed by the duffle bag she can see neatly stowed in one corner.

She pushes the door open.

“Hey, Maggie’s here.” Tim pats Raylan’s hand. He likes Maggie, of all the nurses that he’s seen over the course of time, Maggie is the one who is kindest and gentlest with Raylan.

And if there’s a little angry burn in Tim’s soul that the one time someone shows Raylan some real kindness, he’s not awake to appreciate it, well that’s Tim’s angry little cross to bear and that’s it.

They’ve fallen into this routine, Tim helps Maggie with Raylan’s care, and they have a little conversation about it, including Raylan in their words. Tonight’s no different, the lump enters Tim’s throat again as Maggie very gently smooths Raylan’s hair back. It is getting long, long enough for one of those Yorkie ponytails. Tim imagines Raylan doing that, settling the Stetson on his head, imagines Raylan’s sexy, slinky walk into the office, drawing every eye in the place, taking off his hat and revealing the ponytail. Art’s angry face.

Tonight’s a little different as Maggie presses a soft kiss to Raylan’s forehead and the lump forces tears from Tim’s eyes. He’s held out until now.

Maggie’s hand is resting on his shoulder, Tim can’t help it, he turns into her comfort, holds on for a very long moment.

***justified***

It’s damn quiet, but it’s 0200 and Tim is fairly certain apart from the night staff he’s the only one awake.

He looks down at his hand, clasped around Raylan’s motionless one. “Y’know,” he says, “it’ud be an idea f’you to wake up now.” He absolutely does not shed a tear, if the thumb of his free hand swipes at his cheek it’s because he can feel a speck of dust there.

Nothing.

For a while, Tim watches the clock, counts down in his head to the hour when they turn Raylan’s machines off.

***justified***

It’s morning, and Tim is tired and stiff and so wrung out he doesn’t think he can hold out any more. Which is why he thinks he’s imagining it. It’s the lightest of flutters against his skin, he can’t even call it a squeeze. He hold’s Raylan’s hand tighter and leans forward.

His voice sounds really rusty from strain, “Ray, if you can hear me, you have to move your fingers.” 

It was his imagination. He feels so crushed and broken, he just slumps forward, head down on his folded arm. He can’t do this, but he can’t let go either.

The fingers in his hand twitch.

Tim holds his breath, he stares long and hard at Raylan’s hand.

Raylan’s hand moves, Tim’s sharp gaze shoots to Raylan’s face. Twin slits of brown are staring back at him. Tim reaches out for the call button, aware of the tears streaming down his face, because Raylan’s alive, and awake…

And he might just make it.

***justified***

The floor has been buzzing all day with the news that Raylan Givens is awake. He’s weak as hell, and he may never walk unaided again, but Raylan is one tough son of a bitch and he’s fighting back.

Art hangs outside Raylan’s room, debating with himself whether he’s going in or not. He’s done a lot of soul-searching since Tim’s abrasive visit. He’d always thought of himself as a fair man. Facing up to his feelings about his troublesome cowboy, he’s faced a few unpleasant things about himself.

Maybe Raylan is an asshole. But Art’s been something of an asshole too.

After everything they have all been through, it’s down to Art to make the first move. 

He sighs, and pushes the door open. Time to save his relationships with his deputies.


	2. Beginning Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raylan's out of hospital, but the road to recovery is going to be a long one, and the bullets that put him in the coma have changed his life forever. Things have changed in other ways too, and Raylan isn't as alone as he once was, there's a big decision in his future, and maybe life could be just what Raylan always dreamed of...

Raylan saved himself from falling flat on his face, cursed under his breath, and reached out again, propping his left crutch more securely this time, he caught hold of the catch and popped it free, letting go of the shade as it rolled itself up.

This was not how he envisaged where his life was going, and certainly he never expected to be the proud(ish) co-owner of the newest Dairy Queen franchise in the State of Kentucky, admitting that most of the pride came from himself and Tim, being decorated and wounded former Law Enforcement Officers (And Army Ranger Sniper), beating out the questionable business skills of one Boyd Crowder.

Simply put, on paper Timothy Lorne Gutterson, ex Marshals Service, ex Army Rangers, decorated, wounded in combat etc and Raylan Armand Givens (Tim had some how found out Raylan’s middle name, his mother having loved the idea of her French ancestry, and now Tim delighted in using it), ex Marshals Service, wounded and decorated for it beat out the credentials of a ‘maybe’ former hillbilly dope pedlar.

Beating Boyd Crowder at something like this put a fiendish grin on Raylan’s face.

It did not make up for Crowder somehow wriggling out of significant jail time again, nor Ava’s conviction for seriously wounding Raylan. A conviction which really belonged to Boyd, but Ava didn’t quite have the same Teflon capacity as Boyd when it came to wriggling out of trouble.

Nor did the DQ make up for the daily pain that Raylan had gone through since finally waking up in the hospital three months ago. Inches from Death according to Tim, and it kinda hurt that Tim seemed the only one who was actually genuinely glad at Raylan’s semi-resurrection.

Raylan hated the wheelchair. Loathed the crutches. And was contemplating the ways he could creatively dispose of his physiotherapist (courtesy of Tim, who figured that his old friend from the VA, Casey Crayle… known as CC, would be better for Raylan than some old-fashioned and less tough-minded therapist that the Marshals’ injury plans would provide).

He hated that he was out of the Marshals, with an enormous severance package, due to his injuries. He had pooled his resources with Tim, who had some accumulated back pay in terms of hazardous duties in classified places, and somehow they had enough for this.

It was Tim who thought of Dairy Queen. Raylan loved ice-cream, so what was not to like…

_There are other flavours than vanilla, okay._

_Shut up, Tim._

_Just sayin’…_

And, Tim had heard through a grapevine, he refused to say where, that Boyd Crowder was applying for a DQ franchise…

That was all the impetus Raylan really needed. Beating Boyd was a kind of obsession.

Well, beating Crowder and being able to walk, and stand, and do a ton of other shit without the ever present wheelchair, or crutches, or grab rails or any of the other stuff that Tim had migrated into his home when he took Raylan in like a stray dog on the stoop.

According to CC, he would achieve all of these things, but not today, and not tomorrow, most likely a year at least. He would tire more easily, and he would continue to need the supports, most likely for the rest of his life, but he would dance at his daughter’s wedding one day.

As carrots went, it wasn’t a bad one. As it was, the fact that he was in his daughter’s life at all was all down to Tim. Perhaps Winona was not exactly sorry that he was still alive, but Raylan had not missed the baffled look on her face, which she quickly covered, nor the flare of worry as she realised she still had some big bills to pay and the severance would mostly go towards Raylan’s long term care.

So the look on Winona’s face! Raylan had studied her expressions a bit more closely over the days she came to visit him and for the first time in his life had come to the unhappy conclusion that whilst Winona had loved him at one time, and still loved him a little, the things that kept breaking them up were still there, in force, and recognised the wave of self-awareness which broke over him questioning when she would be up and leaving him again.

It gave him a headache.

To avoid deep thinking, Raylan jabbed the pain relief button on his meds line and sank into peaceful oblivion. Woke up to a slightly cranky Tim, arms folded across his chest, possibly tapping his foot in impatience, but since this was like watching a train wreck in slow motion, Raylan couldn’t look away from the irritated but mildly amused expression on Tim’s face.

The spare bedroom had been redecorated as a child’s room, with a cot (specially adapted so that Raylan could lift Willa even sat in his chair), and all the things necessary for baby management as Tim called it. Willa would be spending her first weekend with her father, and Tim had planned everything out with military precision.

At home Tim did everything with military precision.

Before moving in with Tim, lock, stock and barrel, or rather a suitcase, a duffle bag and four boxes, Raylan really didn’t know Tim’s life outside of the office.

In fact none of them had. Everyone knew where Tim lived, but no one had seen him in his natural habitat, except Raylan.

That Tim’s apartment was organised within an inch of its life wasn’t much of a surprise, the guy had been an Army Ranger after all. His books and DVDs were in alphabetical order on the bookshelves placed neatly either side of the tv table, the coffee table a precise distance from the tv, and another precise distance from the couch. Tim was one squared away soldier. His shirts were colour-co-ordinated, hanging neatly in the wardrobe from light to dark, his tee-shirts were neatly folded, casual check shirts in a neat row. An impressive collection of khakis which went from light to dark in greens and blues made up the rest of the wardrobe, apart from two sober-looking suits, and something in a garment bag which Raylan guessed was Tim’s dress uniform.

His sock drawer had an organiser tidy, his socks placed by colour and shade. Raylan was seriously contemplating putting a pair of boxers in there just to see what would happen. But as Tim’s kindness extended to putting up grab rails for Raylan pretty much everywhere, getting doorways adjusted for a wheelchair which Raylan was still not able to entirely do without and ferrying Raylan to and from his various appointments for physio, and counselling, which the Marshals’ had made a condition of providing him with almost endless on-going physio, messing with Tim seemed ungrateful at the very least.

Raylan leaned heavily on the crutches and tried to pivot like he’d been taught, didn’t seem to matter how many times he tried this, it was still an awkward shuffle and it still really hurt.

“Hey.”

Raylan froze. Tried not to look back as the chair bumped softly against the back of his knees. He stood there stubbornly for a moment, unwilling to concede his body’s pain. The chair never moved, and finally Raylan eased his aching frame down into it.

“Y’know, if I keep usin’ the damn thing, I am never gonna get back up.” He said gruffly.

Tim rolled his eyes and snorted a little. “Pretty sure that CC said, only yesterday mind, that you should use the chair the moment you start feeling tired.” He paused for effect, “and that the more you use it, and accept your body’s current limits the faster you are gonna move on.”

Raylan clamped his jaw tight shut at that and scowled for Tim’s benefit. He was not fuckin’ helpless, thank you very much, except he was and this was pissing him off.

So he was being an ungrateful bastard, and this was just pissing him off.

Tim literally took it all in his stride. Which pissed Raylan off further. Then he remembered Tim was his only real friend, and felt ashamed of his behaviour.

“Thanks.” He said gruffly.

“Y’welcome.” Tim’s tone was neutral, which made Raylan feel even more of a heel.

He hung his head a little as he grabbed the wheels of the chair and started to steer in the direction of the till.

***justified***

“Case, I know we talked about this softly, softly approach,” Tim glanced warily around, though why he was doing that while he was standing in the middle of the street talking on his phone, he couldn’t have said. He sighed, “I just don’t think keeping the full facts from Raylan is actually helping him.”

“We agreed, Tim.”

Tim hunched a shoulder, didn’t matter that Casey couldn’t see him, they knew each other well enough for Casey to pick up nuance in Tim’s tone. “He’s hurting so bad, Case, he’s struggling with the crutches, and the chair, and right now he’s so desperate to be shot of them he’s exhausting himself trying to prove he doesn’t need them.”

“Raylan needs hope, Tim.”

“Yeah he does, Case. But what he doesn’t need is a half-truth and some evasion just to give him the illusion.” Tim gritted his teeth. “Ray is different. I know each patient is different, but Ray… he’s been mistreated and lied to his whole life. Trust me when I tell you that lying to him now, even by omission, is not going to end well for you and your ability to help him.”

Even talking like this about his friend felt disloyal to Tim, but Raylan’s distress was getting worse not better, and Tim figured he needed the true facts about his injuries.

“Case, I have to tell him, before he hurts himself.”


End file.
